


WORKING TITLE: knitting

by Jacks8n



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Canary/Amane, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, HxHBB18, M/M, Memory Loss, Roadtrip, Silva and Illumi get what they deserve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-30 02:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15087023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacks8n/pseuds/Jacks8n
Summary: On his 18th birthday, Killua Zoldyck is ordered home, and his disobedience is punished.





	1. P̧̙̞̔ͫͫͨͪ̉̊̈́͞͝Ȓ̻̭͇̫̦̳̦̹͊͌̿O̓͗́͛̉ͥ̾̓͏̶̯͉̣̯͠L̸̃̋̿̏̏́͏̻̰O̼̖̬̤͍̙͎̅̍̉̅G̓̃̂͑̎̑̚̚͜҉̲͈͖͍͈Ȗ̢͛͑͏̲E̵̞͖̱͕̺͑

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Autumn and Ash (HI!) for beta reading.
> 
> Also I had to keep the working title because it makes me giggle.

Gon presses his palm against the wall, cool as a spade forgotten in autumn leaves. It curves away, vanishing into dreary fog so thick that when he outstretches his hand he can’t make out the freckles on his knuckles. Dingy, directionless light throbs through the gloom to the tempo of lethargic breathing.

Surrounding the towering black marble is a shallow pool. Its tiles twinkle a pattern like stars trapped in cobwebs, the thick mortar between them scratching his feet with every step, and the water saps his energy. Perhaps if he were in sunlight it would be refreshing, but here he longs for warmth.

Gon stops to look over his shoulder, and the reflection of his fuzzy silhouette follows, half a moment delayed. It’s deathly quiet, like the whole world screamed into a jar and screwed the lid shut. Nothing dips down from the fog. No waves greet him from the darkness. Yet earlier, his voice bounced as though he were in a cathedral. There were no answers, but that didn’t keep him from shouting until his throat was ragged.

The wall is all there is, terrifying in its ambivalence. It doesn’t care he’s shivering, it doesn’t care his feet ache, and it doesn’t care he’s afraid. It exists, not defiantly, but because it does, because it can, because Gon was never a consideration to begin with. He feels like a beetle struggling to scuttle away from the harvesting gardner: hardly even seen, let alone thought of with any great depth.

It would be better, he thinks, if the energy was malevolent. Then he could stand and fight, even if his fate was to be squashed. But instead he’s dismissed. Irrelevant. Forgotten.

Dread hangs in his chest like the stilled pendulum of a grandfather clock, but he turns back and marches on, hand running against stone smooth as piano keys. To stop would be to abandon hope of a way inside the wall. Inside, where something _his_ pops and crackles, passionate and brilliant and shattered.

Heartbroken, but his.


	2. Chapter 1

Across the dry canal littered with cigarette butts and plastic bags, cheery graffiti proclaiming “you can do it!” in round bubble letters has been itself graffitied to read “can’t.”

Gon rolls from sitting to his knees and his head goes light. He reaches forward to catch himself with his relatively functional left arm, and his right arm drops, limp and pulling at his shoulder. The pain, blistering and white, chokes him with a scream.

He curls forward, pressing his forehead against the dirty pavement, and grimaces at a sound that must be him but hardly sounds human. Bile burns his already dry throat as he retches.

His fingers are snapped back, his wrist is twisted out, and his shoulder is dislocated. Bone juts from his forearm, the break messy and cracked, and thick swaths of blood have dried on his skin. It’s horrific and unsettling. Mostly because he doesn’t remember how it happened.

Gon sits back on his heels, breath shallow and fast. He wipes his lips with the back of his good hand before gingerly picking up his right. Something twists with a wet crack, and he sobs as he settles it into place.

He should know where he is. How he got here. What mangled his hand. Explanations should spring to his mind like bursting flowers, eager to snatch and drag his mind. Instead they evade him. When he tries to remember, all he gets is the sticky melancholy of an unpleasant dream, a sharp ache between his eyes, and the itch of something important but forgotten.

He has to figure out what happened to him, and he has to reverse it. But he isn’t going to get very far with glorified jam for an arm. Fixing it _has_ to be the priority. 

Which means he has to stand up.

Gon takes a deep breath, holds it for as long as he can, and sighs it out in a woosh. He can do this. Hastily scribbled graffiti says so, and hastily scribbled graffiti, to the best of his knowledge, has never let him down.

Gon trembles as he rises to one knee, discovering aches in his hips and back. He takes a moment to recover, neck tilted and eyes closed. He can feel his heartbeat in his hand, and gravel digs into his knee through the denim of his jeans as he shifts his weight in preparation. He stands slowly and deliberately, keeping his torso straight and minimizing shock to his arm.

On his feet, Gon takes a few experimental steps, smile wide. Something is pulled tight in his thigh, but he's up.

The canal stretches on in either direction, unshaded from the sweltering sun. Puddles of mucky water stagnate, brown and vile. Beyond the eight-foot wall of concrete are steel-roofed industrial warehouses.

Gon gives an acknowledging nod to the serendipitous graffiti and moves on.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
He discovers a rusted ladder, a talent for brute forcing his way through bad ideas, and a park with solid, leafy trees. The old wooden playground is a splinter factory and the grass is unwatered, but compared to the canal, it’s an oasis.

A kind woman with a nervous pout and jittery hands calls an ambulance as he sits on top of a picnic bench, the two children in her care smiling wide-eyed at the wound despite a shout to mind their manners.

“How’d you do it?” asks the girl, who can’t be more than nine. There’s a wide gap between her front teeth.

Gon clears his throat and winces. “I’m not…”

“Does it hurt?” asks the boy, tentatively reaching to poke at his hand. The girl bats him away. He doesn’t react, still riveted.

“Yeah, but—”

“I bet it hurts a lot,” says the girl matter-of-factly. Something about the tilt of her head and her blustery confidence makes him smile fondly. “Even worse than stubbing your toe.”

“Oh. Stubbing your toe can be pretty bad,” says Gon.

The kids both nod sagely, as though he’s imparted invaluable wisdom.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Whatever’s blocking his memory is impervious, but not impermeable.

The paramedic—John—sits across from him with elbows on his knees and cheeks puffed out in bewilderment. To either side of him are shelves lined with colourful pill bottles and equipment. It all jostles as the vehicle bumps along, a hectic frame around a sturdy man.

“No last name?”

Gon bounces his leg off the gurney support, leaning as they slow for a red light. “Can’t remember.”

John’s face stays professionally level as he scribbles something on the clipboard beside him. “Okay. Anyone I can call for you, Gon?”

Urgency slams over him like a bucket of cold water. The shape of a presence, solid but fickle, taunts him with its faceless form. A complicated swirl of joy and trust and anxiety rises in his chest, and at the center of it all, crystallized certainty.

Yes. Yes, there’s someone he needs to talk to.

John rests a slow hand on his knee. “It’s alright, you’re safe. If you change your mind, let me know.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
His feet hit pavement in the ER parking lot and he squints against the light. A dust devil skitters across the dry roundabout island, kicking up long dead leaves and crumpled cigarette butts. Another wave of emotion, an echo, like the one before but far less acute, settles as unease in his gut. John closes the ambulance door with a thump, and Gon jumps.

The paramedics walk ahead, jovial and relaxed. The driver pulls at her shirt and sticks out her tongue while making an exaggerated face. If anything, Gon is cold.

She breezes through the dual automatic doors to greet the receptionist, and John waits, lifting a hand over his brow to watch Gon, one eye squinted closed. He flashes a smile and beckons encouragingly.

“C’mon kid, let’s get into the AC.”

It sounds like a threat, but he follows after a moment of heel dragging. John, satisfied, moves on to join the driver.

Gon only makes it a step into the vestibule before halting.

Fluorescent lights. Sterilized air. Squeaking shoes. He doesn’t want to be here.

Why, he isn’t sure, but the impulse to run burns through his veins. He’s suffocating on air that seems devoid of oxygen, too exposed and too confined all at once. He hops from foot to foot, grimacing as every impact sends a jolt to his shoulder.

John looks back and furrows his brows. His partner keeps talking, laughing amicably with the woman behind the front desk.

Gon stills himself, bowing his head and closing his eyes despite a screaming urge to run.

If he leaves now, his arm will heal improperly, if at all. Before he can deal with anything else, he needs to get it fixed. He _needs_ to get it fixed.

Gon licks his lips, mouth dry. He takes a step forward and freezes again. It’s like his shoes are lead weights; every step he drags tests his might and willpower.

The second automatic door closes behind him and he tenses, like the waiting room is going to snap at him with wolfish fangs. Nothing changes.

The receptionist asks him a few questions—none he can answer, none he hasn’t already been asked, and none that distract from the pounding in his ears—then John guides him down a rat maze of wide hallways to a room with nothing but a magazine rack, cracked leather chairs, and a loud wall clock.

“You gonna be alright, bud?” asks John.

Gon blinks up from staring at a crack in the linoleum tiling. “Yeah, sure.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
He looks like shit.

His eyes are bloodshot, his hair sticks out in every direction, and he still has canal dirt smeared on his forehead. His cast is sickly white against his skin, and a bruise, purple and mottled, blooms on his jaw. There’s another growing on his ribs.

He takes off the sling and rests his cast on the sink as he finagles with the cover. After two days of x-rays, surgeries, and consultations, all of which proved fruitless in sparking his memory, he just wants to lose himself under the drum of a scalding shower.

“Are you alright on your own?” asks his nurse, Lan, from the other side of the bathroom door. 

“Yeah,” says Gon, tightening the seal. “I got it.”

“Okay. Just press one of the help buttons if you need me.”

Gon rolls his eyes—it isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation—before putting on a smile so his irritation won’t carry in his voice. It’s not Lan’s fault the hospital is grinding his nerves. “I’m fine, don’t worry.”

The shower is as divine as he hoped it would be. He faces the water and lets it lift off days of tension. An echo, faint but cheery, breezes over him, and he sighs.

The echoes happen a lot. The first one he felt is a near constant companion—whoever it was, he must have been in the habit of thinking about them often—but others, harder to pick out as individual strands, respond to the world as readily as he does. It’s like he can _feel_ his memories but not _think_ them.

When he finally steps out of the shower a half-hour later, refreshed and ecstatic to be clean, Lan catches him on the way to his room. He waves and skips closer, pushing the wide-rimmed glasses that make his eyes look huge back up with the heel of his palm. “Need help with—oh.”

Gon raises his eyebrows in silent question as he re-adjusts the height of the sling.

“You tied yourself,” says Lan, pouting a mix of interest and disappointment.

Gon looks down at the loose top, designed to close at the sides rather than be pulled over, and shrugs as best he can.

“I can tie knots with one hand.”

“Oh,” says Lan. “Well… alright, then. Do you need anything?”

“I’m fine,” smiles Gon, sunny as he can muster. 

He’s going to have to come up with something for Lan to do.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Gon shares a room with three others, curtains drawn between them for privacy. It’s nice to not be alone, even if he doesn’t speak to anyone.

Agnes, in for hip surgery, is his favourite roommate. She has a dozen rotating visitors, family members with brassy voices and bad health advice she entertains anyway. Gon’s favourite suggestion—to kiss away the arthritis—came from her granddaughter, who stomped in with light-up shoes and an air of authority.

The door to their room is eternally open. Even when night falls and it’s been an hour since the last staff member walked by, a sliver of light cuts in from the dimmed hallway. Air ducts in the ceiling rumble softly. Agnes snores.

Gon sits beside the window, glass of water from Lan balanced on the edge, and looks down on the urban street, his chin in his palm. A lone car waits at a red light for traffic that never comes. He closes his eyes and loses himself in the low, simmering hum from floors above and below.

Sleep is impossible. The terror that comes when he thinks about the hospital too hard combined with relentless dreams of a black wall and hazy fog make it difficult both to fall asleep and to keep from tossing awake. So he sits at the window, skin itching, willing the sun to rise.

His plan—his stupid plan—is to walk around until something jolts his memory. Trying to scare himself into an epiphany probably isn’t wise, but according to the methodically voiced specialist who consulted him, the proper equipment to scan his brain won’t be available for another two days. He doesn’t intend to just wait around for something to happen.

_Thunk._

Gon stiffens. Adrenaline sharpens his senses, and he attunes his ears to the hallway. Instinct born deep in his gut wills him to his feet despite the unbroken wave of heavy silence that follows.

He approaches the doorway cautiously, heart pounding and breath uneven. Exit routes flash in his mind's eye, and he wonders if he could jump from the window without re-injuring his arm. A distant part of himself notes his reaction to what is likely security making rounds is extreme, but he shoves it aside. Better to assume the worst than be caught off guard.

The young man that appears almost crashes into him, barely catching himself on the frame.

Gon retreats a step, knees bending on reflex and back foot turning out to steady his stance. Their eyes lock, and Gon’s shock is mirrored back at him.

The man wears a loose trench coat, comically warm considering the weather, that looks as though it’s been dragged through a war zone. Maybe it has been, judging by the bags under his eyes and the set of his shoulders.

He clearly isn’t staff, but nothing about his posture suggests an intention to do harm. A visitor, then; perhaps he’s here to suggest Agnes give spiritual healing a try. Gon straightens sheepishly, fiddling with the lowest knot on his shirt.

The shock on the other man’s face morphs into a hard stare. It seems too intimate for strangers, but Gon can’t tear his eyes away, even as a rough blush creeps over his cheeks. He feels transparent. Like he’s done something wrong and they both know it.

“Hey, Gon.”

His clenched hand relaxes. His lips part in realization.

Relief and gratitude slam into him like hurricane winds. Something thick swells in his throat, and his eyebrows buckle together.

The man waits expectantly, but when Gon doesn’t speak, still in disbelief the echo found _him_ , his gaze drifts to the floor. He rubs the back of his neck, and something passes over his face, heavy and anguished.

Without thinking, Gon rests a hand on the man’s chest, heartbeat solid and strong through the thin cotton of his shirt. The man’s eyes rise, and something solidifies.

He melts the distance, cupping Gon’s cheeks with warm hands. Gon catches sea spray on his skin, and his eyes slip closed, a whirlwind of soothing echoes twirling in his chest.

Their lips graze, and Gon freezes. Agonizingly gentle, the man shifts a hand to the back of his neck and pulls him into a proper kiss. There’s coffee on his breath. Gon curls his fingers in the man’s shirt, unsure of whether to push him away or indulge something messy and hold him closer.

The man stops, and for a moment they float in the grace of a shared moment.

But then he’s is patting Gon’s hair and tugging his ears and dancing fingers over his features like he can’t decide where he wants his hands to be. Gon relaxes into the touch.

“You should have fucking called, Gon,” he says, voice hoarse, shaking him slightly to emphasize the point.

“I’m sorry,” says Gon.

“No, no, don’t.” He kisses Gon’s forehead. “This wasn’t your fault. If anything, if anyone—I should have guessed he would...”

Gon catches one of the man’s hands and takes a half step back to read his expression. It’s erased before Gon catches it.

“No, I mean…”

The man looks at him like this _matters_ , like _he_ matters, and that only makes it worse.

“What?” he asks, squeezing Gon’s clasped hand. Gon squeezes back. He takes a shuddering breath.

“I don’t know who you are.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
[ ](https://doodleboi.tumblr.com/post/175396863334/hey-hey-hey-heres-my-pieces-for-the-hxhbb18-i)


	3. Chapter 2

Gon undresses as Killua fusses with a splatter of blood on his extra shirt. His face is schooled blank, but the tightness in his jaw betrays more than he’s willing to expose.

“Killua?”

He lifts his eyes for a moment, before dropping them back to his fruitless busy work.

“Hey, Killua.”

If anything, he shies even further away.

Gon reaches out to stop his hands, and Killua goes very still. Gon squeezes his knuckles.

He isn’t sure how to put the magnitude of his feelings about Killua into words. He can’t recall a thing about him, but the layers and layers of echoes the sight of him stirs up betray a long, complicated history. He was who Gon thought of when John offered a call. Of that much, he’s certain.

“I’m… I trust you a lot. And it’s kind of scary to not know why, but I do. It’s like…”

Killua smiles wistfully as Gon trails off, bobbing his head back and forth like he can shake the end of a sentence from his ears. “You don’t want it to be weird?” he offers.

Gon nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! Yeah, it’s like. You’re all that makes sense right now. If that makes sense.”

“Almost,” says Killua, with a charming, knowing smile. He steals his hand away, only to brush his knuckles across Gon’s cheek. For a moment he just looks at Gon with more fondness and affection than Gon knows how to handle.

And then he flicks him in the forehead.

“Hey!” says Gon, rubbing fiercely at the mark. “What was that for?”

Killua’s laughing, a finger over his lips to remind Gon of company. “Not sure yet, just putting it in the bank.”

Gon sticks out his tongue. Killua flashes a cheshire smile before stepping forward to help him out of his shirt.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
There’s an unconcious girl in the hallway. She lies face up, limbs sprawled, eyes closed and mouth parted. Her neck tie is loosened, and a vague impression of annoyance pulls her brows together, even in dreamless slumber. Gon kneels beside her, but Killua keeps walking without a second of pause, already waving at another girl in a matching suit.

“Hey,” says Gon, as loud as he dares.

Killua slows and looks over his shoulder.

“Is she okay?”

He gestures dismissively. “She’ll be fine. Amane’s tougher than she looks.”

Gon puffs out his cheeks before jogging to catch up. “Did you do that?”

“She was going to kill you,” is answer enough. Gon’s lack of surprise tells him plenty.

The next girl reaches out as they approach, and Killua grabs her hand like he intends to shake it. Instead they just hold onto each other, her free fingers tapping his elbow.

“Hello, Master Gon,” she says, smile warm, as Killua plucks lint off her jacket. Gon gestures like he’s tipping a hat, and she laughs, faint but fond. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“Good to hear,” says Gon.

Killua squeezes her hand and she looks to him. Deliberately, he taps between his eyes. Her mouth hardens, and she turns to Gon with newfound skepticism. 

“No memory,” says Killua. The girl bites her lips, and Killua catches Gon’s eyes and nods down at her. “This is Canary. She works for the family, but she’s a friend.”

Her brows pull together and she frowns, mildly irritated. “Master Killua, don’t—”

“You are,” says Killua, voice hard. They glare at each other, and Gon shuffles nervously. He feels like an intruder on a private moment.

She opens her mouth. It seems as though she’s going to protest further before she scoffs and rolls her eyes. Satisfied, Killua nods. “Anyway, I trust her. She’s gonna help us from the inside, and then when we’re done she’s coming with us.” Killua looks at her with intense attentiveness. “If that’s what she wants.”

Canary’s lips part and her eyes widen, before her expression twists sour.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” says Killua. His voice is soft, but there’s an urgent edge to it. “Just think about it, okay? I’ve got a plan.”

She hisses, and her grimace shifts into a strained smile. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Amane too. Talk to her.” Killua lets go, and gives a gentle bow that makes her laugh while covering her mouth.

“Go, Killua. I need to look after her.”

“I’m sure you do,” he says. She smacks his arm and he laughs harder.

Killua twists on his heels and walks backwards, eyes wild. “Here’s where it gets fun, Gon.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“Seatbelt.”

“I’m working on it!” says Gon, heart hammering as they race through the dark parkade, tires screeching as Killua zips around the bend. He manages to clip in a second before they shoot off onto the road.

Gon braces against the dashboard as Killua swings a turn with so much momentum the car—red, boxy, and absolutely not built for this—tilts onto two wheels before slamming back down.

There’s a bang, and the back window shatters. Killua puts a hand on Gon’s good shoulder, and a silky pressure breaks over him like an ocean wave. It’s comfortably cool, faintly ozone, and raises the hair on the back of his neck.

Killua’s touch fades, but the thickness in the air doesn’t. Gon opens his mouth and squirms at the heavy feeling of it. His scrapes his tongue with his teeth, and has to abruptly relax his jaw before they crash over a speedbump, bumpers thumping.

“Weird,” he says.

“You good?” asks Killua as they escape hospital property for the main roads.

“What is this?” Gon opens and closes his fists, frowning at the sensation of it whooshing around his fingers.

“That’s not actually an easy question to answer.”

Another bang.

Gon turns to peer out the back window. A sleek limo follows half a block behind. “They’re getting closer.”

“Fuck’s sake,” says Killua, as though being shot at is a minor annoyance. “Hold on.”

He slams on the brakes, and Gon, body twisted, gasps when the seatbelt squeezes his bruised ribs. The world spins, Gon slides into the door, and he closes his eyes, surrendering to the pain of his weight resting on his broken arm.

The pull fades, his right side burns numb, and he takes a shuddering breath, lungs heaving, before cracking open his eyes. Gon lunges to hold onto Killua by his coat.

“Relax,” says Killua, patting his hand. “We’re good.”

They fly down a laneway, garbage cans and parked vehicles blurring past just inches away on either side. The car bounces on the uneven gravel, frame rattling. A cat leaps to escape their path a moment before it’s hit.

“You’re insane,” says Gon.

“You’re the one laughing,” says Killua, also laughing.

“Shut up. Shut up, pay attention to the road.”

They dip back onto pavement, and this time when Killua turns hard, Gon almost falls into his lap. 

Killua watches the rearview mirror with hawkish intensity before taking another, less dramatic turn. And then another.

Adrenaline crashing, Gon’s mind returns to his body. The pain hits him like a sledgehammer, and he doubles over, muscles spasming around broken bones. He grits his teeth and gasps for air as tears slip down his cheeks.

The pressure releases with a puff. A hand settles on his back to rub circles.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
They swap cars, drive a town up the coastline, and swap cars again before turning inland. The two-lane highway is empty, save for the rare oncoming truck and deer abling in the ditch. Killua relaxes like snow blanketing fall until he’s looking out the windshield more than at the mirrors.

Dense pine forest stretches across the rolling hills, patched with clear cutting and decaying ranchers, yards full of broken vehicles from decades passed. The radio plays staticky classics that fade into a duet with the thud of tires on a road more patch than original.

It’s nice, being alone with Killua. They settle into each other. If Killua were a stranger—and in many ways, he is—Gon doesn’t think it would be any different. Their wavelengths are compatible.

He drifts in and out of almost-sleep, bouncing awake every time his balance slips, and tries not to think too hard about the more complicated feelings Killua evokes. He doesn’t have the courage to ask about them, and he wonders if that’s new.

“Gon,” says Killua, jolting him from staring out the window.

“Mm?” asks Gon, pushing himself up straighter. He makes an effort to smooth the wrinkle in his brow.

“I want to apologize.”

Gon pouts. Killua hasn’t done anything wrong.

He leans forward and tilts to face him as best he can. Killua’s eyes wrinkle in a grimace, and he pointedly refuses to meet Gon’s stare.

“It would… it would take me a long time to explain right now, so I’ll give you a proper apology later. But I want you to know you’re really important to me, okay?”

Gon stills. “I’m not mad at you,” he says, almost as though it’s a question.

Killua inhales sharply. His eyes flick to Gon, and Gon swears they shine in the light of the radio display. “I know,” he says.

Gon considers pushing him for more, but Killua’s already set his jaw in resolution. Gon sits back and braces a foot against the dashboard. He doesn’t have the will for a hollow argument.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
They stop at a gas station to buy snacks and water so Gon can take the pain meds Killua “picked up” at the hospital. It’s quiet, empty save for them and an attendant with his feet up and a worn comic book open on his knees. Killua stands so close their hands brush with every step.

“You want chocolate, or gummies?”

“Is there any real food here?” asks Gon, eyeing the racks with a frown.

“Hurtful. And no.”

Killua stuffs his arms with garbage as Gon hits the back freezer. It buzzes like crickets. He picks out a water for himself and an energy drink with a lightning bolt on the side for Killua, who shakes his head, a light smile tugging the corners of his eyes, when Gon sets it down beside the register.

“If I pay double can I use the wrong currency,” says Killua, not waiting for an answer as he drops a handful of crumpled bills on the counter.

“It’s whatever, little man,” says the attendant, who can’t be more than five years older than them. “Have a stellar night.”

“Cool,” says Killua, like he was expecting resistance.

“How old am I?” asks Gon.

Killua, halfway through scooping up his loot, pauses. “Eighteen.”

The attendant makes a pained sound. “Too young to be asking.”

Gon tugs at his collar.

As they walk across the parking lot, Killua uses his teeth to rip into a bag of something that smells like artificial strawberry. Lights blink on the distant hills.

“And you?” asks Gon.

“Eighteen,” Killua mumbles around the wrapper.

Back on the highway, he takes off his shoes and drives with a socked foot on the wheel. Gon watches with naked fascination as the mountain of sugar is eroded.

Killua catches him mid investigation. “I’m an innovator,” he deadpans, shoving a fistful of chips into his mouth while making steady eye contact. Gon takes his pills and wordlessly offers the water when Killua coughs.

They return to companionable silence, dawn cracking in the distance and radio tuned to the weather channel. The trees shift into farmland. Gon kicks off his shoes and pulls up a leg, dropping his knee on the armrest.

It’s nice.

They pass into Skiffen, “Home of the Skiffen Slide,” which is either a water park attraction or an execution method judging by the picture. Maybe they should check it out sometime when they aren’t being hunted.

All he can piece together with confidence is that Killua’s family is powerful and trying to kill him. Everything beyond that is guesswork.

His conversation with Canary was strange—like his family was something he, too, was trying to escape—but why, Gon doesn’t know. And he didn’t tell her the plan. Did he think she would disapprove? Gon’s certain Killua wouldn’t endanger them on a whim, which means he’s probably risking himself.

He didn’t fear the bullets earlier, so either the strange force was impervious or he didn’t expect them to be aimed. But they _were_ shot. He was in the car. It could have gone wrong. 

Could they depend on Killua’s family valuing his life?

Gon stretches his good arm and his spine clicks. He isn’t going to get any further without more information.

“Killua?”

He glances over with half-lidded eyes. “Mm?”

Gon picks at pills on his borrowed sweatpants and tries to manufacture ease. “What’s going on?”

Killua looks away. For a moment he’s quiet, like he’s going to find answers out in the strawberry fields. He taps his fingers on the wheel and leans forward so his chest is against the horn. The car sways back and forth with his rocking.

When he does speak, it’s hardly any louder than the rainshower warning.

“My family’s all assassins,” he says, hands clasped together, the rest of his posture deceptively relaxed. Gon’s lips twitch into a fleeting smile at how they’re both trying to protect each other from the gravity of the conversation. “And before I could talk, they decided I would be the next head of the business. I ran away when I was twelve—” his expression lifts into something more genuinely open “—and that’s when I met you. Never went back.

“But four days ago I turned eighteen and apparently hit the end of my leash.” Killua smiles, something sad and gentle wrinkling his eyes. “Had to run. Thought I could wait them out, figure out a plan. You went to go stay with my sister, Alluka. And then…” Killua throws up his hands. The car lurches and he catches it. He opens his mouth, then clamps it shut tightly before trying again. “I think my oldest brother found you.”

Gon looks down at his shoes as Killua scrubs his face. He curls his toes into the seat cushion. “So where are we going now?”

“Home. Alluka. She might be able to fix your memory.”

Gon can’t help his nervous laugh. He pulls his knees up to his chest, turning Killua’s words over in his head.

Click.

“This is a trap.”

“Gon.”

“They’re using me to—”

“Gon, listen to me—”

“You can’t just—”

“Gon!”

Killua swerves onto the shoulder and Gon’s feet slide, thudding on the floor. They scrape against blackberry bushes before skidding to a stop.

“What the hell, Killua!?”

He throws the car into park, undoes his seatbelt, and crawls over the console to straddle Gon’s legs.

They stare each other down. Gon’s blood boils, and he wonders how it’s possible to be so furious and so scared for someone at the same time.

“You’re being stupid.”

Killua grinds his teeth. He looks like he’s about to snap something, and then his expression levels flat like a ripple dissipating in lake weeds. His energy changes, but the intensity remains.

Lit by dawn, his eyes are pale and artic. Ruthlessly determined, as indifferent to the whims of the world as a glacier grinding mountains to dust.

When Killua rests a hand on his good shoulder, Gon looks away.

“Gon. C’mon, Gon.” A trailer passes by, and the car sways in its wake. Killua digs his fingers into Gon’s shoulder. “I don’t care,” he says, and Gon already knows.

“Well I—” 

“No, listen. You promised. I know you don’t remember, but you _promised_ me you weren’t going to give up your life again.”

“You can’t just—”

“I’m going to, and I’d rather not argue about whether or not you’re worth it the whole time.”

Gon flinches like he’s been slapped and looks up at Killua, thorny words rising in his throat. Killua watches for a moment, weighing his reaction, before smiling. He picks up Gon’s hand and runs his thumb along the insides of his knuckles.

“Cause you are.” He kisses the heel of Gon’s palm, and Gon’s heart catches in his throat. Tears he doesn’t understand well in his eyes. “We’re friends. Let me help you.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
[](https://doodleboi.tumblr.com/post/175396863334/hey-hey-hey-heres-my-pieces-for-the-hxhbb18-i)   
[ ](https://doodleboi.tumblr.com/post/175396863334/hey-hey-hey-heres-my-pieces-for-the-hxhbb18-i)


	4. Chapter 3

The Shiffen Inn, Killua reports with the chipper tone of a tour guide, has seen two murders in the past year. Gon suspects that’s fewer than the number of bodies lost in the rabbit warren of a thrift store where they grabbed non-bloodstained clothes.

“Cool.”

“I know, right?” says Killua, eyes bright as they pull into the parking lot. A downpour pelts against the roof, so heavy that even on full blast the windshield wipers can’t keep the road visible.

Gon isn’t sure he believes in bad omens, but if he did, his life would be about eighty percent bad omens.

The numbers on their door have fallen away, leaving only the impression of “17”. Killua fiddles with the key card as Gon strategically avoids rain dripping through the awning.

On the third red blink, Killua rolls his eyes and makes an “I’m stupid” gasp before tapping the lock. Gon pouts, wondering why he’s given up, before it flashes green, then sparks and goes dead. Killua beams. Gon decides to set that kettle on the back burner, right between “unnaturally quiet footsteps” and “bit straight through jawbreaker.”

Humidity has stuck the door to the frame, so Killua rams it with his shoulder. He tumbles forward, laughing as Gon shoves him faster, eager to get out of the rain and into the dim room. 

Water damage cracks across the ceiling, bright patches on the carpet mark where housekeeping has tried to erase stains, and a game show leaks through the thin wall, but Gon doesn’t think he’s ever been so thrilled to see beds.

Killua drops his pack on the one nearest the window and kicks off his shoes without undoing the laces. Gon follows suit, leaving the bag of new-to-them clothes on a hard and impractically positioned armchair before flopping back on the bed.

“Dibs on first shower,” says Killua, out of his coat and peeling off his shirt. 

“Welcome to it,” says Gon.

There are scars all across his torso.


	5. C̵͎̳̮̱͓̅͆͑Ḧ͚̝̺̙͡A͓̱̼ͧͥ̿ͬP̶͎̱͚͈̗ͤ̆͝T̗̪̱̙͔ͯ͑͌̓̂̌Ḙ̴̯̲̼̞̤̋ͨ̈ͅṚ̨̤͉́̎̄̅͟ͅ ̥ͥ̊͐́̓ͯ͝4̷̤̥̖̪ͤ͑̒͆͛ͪ̿̕͡

Gon sits with his back against the wall and his legs spread flat on the tile. Water soaks his pants and cold sinks to bone. Weariness lodges itself in his chest and tugs his eyes closed. He leans his head back and breathes in deeply.

There’s yet to be a millimeter of variation in the wall, the pool, or the fog.

The space is more than a dream. It was constructed. It’s wrong, unfamiliar, and yet it persists, an unwelcome passenger in his mind. Gon can’t alter it through willpower despite being lucid, and he can’t break away. The only option left, aside from continuing as he has, is to walk off into nothing.

Gon sighs, and his breath rises in a visible puff.


	6. Chapter 5

He wakes to mid-afternoon sunlight leaking through the half-open blinds, illuminating swaths of dust and cutting across his face. Gon groans and tries to roll over, but the cast gets in the way. He hides his eyes in the crook of his good elbow instead.

“Morning,” says Killua. Gon grunts something unintelligible, and Killua laughs.

Reluctantly, he drops his arm and cracks his eyes open. Killua sits beside him, back against the headboard.

“You joined me,” says Gon, stretching out his legs.

Killua sputters, gesturing wildly. “You were asleep on top of the covers, I tried to move you, and you asked me to stay.”

“Mm,” says Gon, rubbing his eyes. “Don’t remember that.”

“Shocker,” says Killua, tone careful, like he’s testing the waters. Gon figures all that deserves is a half-hearted bat in Killua’s general direction, and Killua exhales a laugh.

For a few minutes, they enjoy the quiet peace of being together. Killua cards his fingers through Gon’s hair, and Gon softens into the mattress. Being with Killua is like shrugging on a well-loved jacket.

He doesn’t have the whole story yet. The frothing sorrow swirling around clues at more turbulence than Killua is choosing to let on. But he has enough. Enough to know the wounds are worth healing, enough to know Killua has been as steady a presence in his life as the moon, and enough to know he doesn’t want this to end.

He opens his eyes, and Killua is looking down at him with a depth of fondness that borders terrifying.

Guilt. Hard and heavy.

Gon closes his eyes and scoots closer, wishing he could curl into Killua’s hip without the damn cast in his way.

“What are you thinking about?” asks Killua.

Gon smiles, a coy facade. “Mm. You.” It’s technically true, he figures. Sorta. Mostly almost, at the very least.

He hears the cocky grin in Killua’s voice. “What about me?”

“That you’re wonderful,” says Gon. He doesn’t have to fake his smile anymore. Killua _is_ wonderful. He’s kind. The rare sort where instead of misfortune callousing the soul, it pulled him into soft bloom. If Gon knew nothing else, that would be enough to inspire his devotion.

Killua runs a finger down Gon’s nose with a feather touch. He wrinkles it and _hears_ Killua smile.

“You’re a shit liar, Gon.”

His eyes fly open. Killua’s hand stills on his collarbone, and his unblinking expression leaves no room for discussion.

“What are you thinking about.”

Gon bites his lip.

He should avoid the conversation and substitute in another of his questions—not exactly a commodity in short supply—and save Killua the trouble and himself from what he fears the answer will be. Something tells him Killua’s already got an idea of what’s up, though. And, more vitally, Gon’s curious as a windup toy soldier walking off a table.

“Killua.” Gon crosses his arm over his body and holds onto the front of his shirt like a lifeline. “What if I don’t remember?”

He isn’t sure exactly what he’s expecting. For Killua to be frustrated like the night before, maybe, or for him to spout false confidence in his sister’s abilities. He doesn’t do either, though. His expression doesn’t even waver.

“Gon, are you happy when we’re together?”

“...Yeah.”

“Then we’ll stay together,” says Killua, flippantly, like the matter is inconsequential. He hops out of bed, and Gon rolls up to watch him march to his pack. “Are you having a shower before we go?”

“Oh… um, yeah. Yeah.”

Gon catches the bag Killua tosses his way. “Get going then, I want breakfast.”

Gon sits frozen for a few moments, captivated as Killua fixes his hair in the mirror. If he walks over, wraps his arm around Killua’s middle, and buries his face between his shoulders for a few minutes, well… that’s between them.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Without a cast cover he can’t shower, but a warm washcloth against his skin is a good enough substitute. His bruises are starting to yellow, and the one on his jaw is particularly vicious.

When he’s done and dressed in clean clothes—Killua must have visited the laundry room while he slept—he finds him waiting on the hood of the car.

The morning storm has exploded the surrounding forest into green and quenched the weeds that poke up through cracks in the concrete. Clouds hang low in the sky, drifting lazy on a cool breeze. Killua’s head is tilted back and his eyes are closed. He breathes deeply, and Gon watches him with a smile.

Killua is beautiful.

He cracks an eye open like he can hear Gon’s thoughts, and Gon beams. “You’re beautiful.” 

Killua lands on the gravel. “Let’s go.”

Gon allows himself a self-satisfied smirk.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The leather booth is pastel blue, the floor is checkered, and the milkshakes being delivered to patrons overflow from the glasses. Killua sits across from him, drumming straws, and outside, a highway buzzes with urban traffic. Gon rests his chin in the palm of his hand and closes his eyes, enjoying the smell of fresh cooking and rain.

“We should stay here forever,” says Gon. Killua snickers, and Gon has to twist his mouth to hide a smile when straws start tapping rhythmically on his arm.

“Not opposed,” says Killua. “But you’d get bored eventually.”

Gon hums, sinking into the contentment of a clear morning. Well, afternoon. Morning for him. “Doubt it.”

“You just don’t know yourself well enough,” says Killua. Gon smiles, and the drumming stalls for a moment before picking back up. Gon is sure that as long as he’s with Killua, he’d never get bored.

Their lazy peace is disrupted by a server with a long nose and a high ponytail. “What can I get for you two?” she asks, notepad in hand.

Gon winces apologetically and scoots his menu closer—he’d been too distracted to actually look through it—but Killua beats him to it. “Mint chocolate milkshake, number five, number eight, and orange juice, please.”

Gon sticks out his tongue as she picks up their menus and walks away. “Rude.”

Killua shrugs. “You order the same thing every time. I’m just saving you some effort.” He goes back to drumming, eyes locked on something outside. Killua rolls his lips, biting down on them gently, and then opens his mouth with a pop. Gon tilts his head.

“You know me better than I do,” he says, leaning back into the cracked leather.

Killua furrows his brows, still looking outside. “Yeah?”

Gon bobs his head back and forth, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “Just kinda weird, is all.”

Killua raises an eyebrow, flicking his stare to Gon, and then back to the parking lot. “Bad weird?”

Gon pauses.

It’s like taking a morning walk through a glen and getting caught just as the fog rises and the sun dips low and the trees burn gold. It’s feeling like the whole universe, all of it, was made for a spiritual wash of full body gratitude at being able to experience something so ephemeral.

Gon licks the front of his teeth and looks down at chipped tile. “No. Just… weird.”

Killua reaches across the table and slides their hands together.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
There’s a car following them. It coasts a hill away, bobbing in and out of view as they drive along the winding highway. Traffic is tight enough Gon doesn’t notice for their first half hour on the road; once he does, though, he can’t keep his focus from drifting to the side-view mirrors.

“Gon,” says Killua, rubbing his thumb across his lips, eyes stubbornly fixed on the road ahead. “Don’t worry.”

For Killua’s sake, he tries to appear engrossed in swapping through the music stations.


	7. Chapter 6

Summer on Whale Island brings wildflowers and sun showers. Grass grows lush and green around the Freecss household, with only a thin path trampled from the road to the door any shorter than knee height. Gnats buzz in swarms, and bumble bees tumble from one fruit tree to another.

Gon sits balanced on a ladder borrowed from the neighbors, sanding peeling paint off a window frame. It’s a shame to miss a good fishing day, but there’s simple peace in maintaining the home that sweetens his disappointment.

He’s already remade the beds with silky sheets and dug around the attic for the small industrial fan they use to pull cool air in during the mornings. By the time Mito’s home, he’ll have vacuumed and washed the blinds, too. As long as his call with Killua doesn’t go too long.

He still has an hour before he won’t feel guilty about waking him up—just enough time to finish sanding, make himself lunch, and grab his list of things to talk about. Between time zones and work, they never get to call as often as Gon would like. He has to keep track of everything he wants to share to keep from forgetting or repeating.

The cracked paint around his bedroom window is finally being persuaded to leave when his cell phone chimes inside. Gon pats off his clothes, leaves his work boots on the highest rung, and pushes open the window to shimmy inside.

Killua. Not unheard of, but still unusual for him to call first. Especially _today._ Gon furrows his brow and picks up.

“I was about to call,” he says, hopping onto his desk, feet resting on his chair. He pushes it back so it’s balanced on two legs.

“Hey, Gon,” says Killua, tired, but a dull smile still in his voice.

“What’s wrong?” asks Gon, knee starting to bounce. Stray dust flecks shake to the ground.

Killua laughs, somewhere between fond and annoyed. “All I said was hey.”

“You sound off. Are you alright?”

The line falls silent, and Gon presses it closer to his ear, like he’ll be able to see Killua’s face if he listens to the static hard enough.

Killua is quiet.

Something is very wrong. “Killua, where are—”

“Can you come stay with Alluka?”

“Where are you?” Gon repeats. His body moves on autopilot to pull down his backpack. He whacks it on his leg, and dust puffs.

“I promised she could do a whole year of school at the same place, and there’s only a couple weeks—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll stay with her, don’t worry,” says Gon, stuffing in a change of clothes. He holds the phone between his ear and shoulder, eyeing a pair of heavy pants and trying to remember how cold it’s supposed to be where Killua lives. “There’s a ferry leaving tonight, I’ll be there as soon as I can. What’s going on.”

Killua breathes a sigh of relief, and Gon clenches his teeth. “Okay, awesome. Bisky’s agreed to come handle security, I just through it would be nice if—”

“Killua, tell me what’s going on.”

Nothing. Gon’s heart jumps in his throat. He grabs the phone, and his grip makes the plastic creak.

“Are you safe?”

“I’m…” Killua trails off, like he isn’t sure what the question is asking. “Sorry. Family wants me home.”

Gon freezes, kneeling and braced against the frame of his closet for balance. “You can’t do that.”

“Well, I mean—”

“Promise you won’t.” Gon is surprised by the force of his request, as though someone else said the words.

Killua must be taken aback too, because all Gon gets for a heavy second is static. He closes his eyes, wincing at his lack of tact. 

Gon almost expects the next sound to be the click of the call ending—it wouldn’t be the first time one of them chose to throw a continent of distance between them—and breathes a sigh of relief when he gets Killua’s voice instead.

“Okay,” says Killua, like it's the resolution of an argument. It probably is. Gon wonders how much he weighed his own wellbeing. “Okay. I promise.”

“Promise?”

Gon’s body seems to float, a feeling he gets whenever he loses himself in the space where their voices meet. Killua _can’t_ go back. Not now. Not after he’s spent so much time unravelling himself from it all.

And then Killua laughs, and after a moment of pause, Gon groans. He sits back with a thump.

“I promise I promise,” says Killua.

“Stop laughing at me,” Gon whines, trying to twist his mouth into a frown so Killua can’t hear his own amusement.

“Never,” says Killua, sharp, low, and curved by a smile. Gon’s cheeks burn, and he lifts a hand to cover his face.

Realization like a thunderbolt shocks through his body, and Gon’s eyes widen. A gasp parts his lips at the simplicity of the answer to a dozen different mysteries, and then a smile cracks from ear to ear as he grasps the implications.

“What?” asks Killua, smile still clear. It’s the same tone he uses when he pokes Gon for sitting in a way that leaves him open to poking, and Gon buzzes with a swell of affection so strong it’s overwhelming. He wonders why it took him so long to name it.

“I love you,” he says, throwing every ounce of the feeling he can behind his words.

Killua sucks in a breath, sharp and shocked.

Gon’s joy melts like candle wax. He’s going to throw up.

Killua sighs, dismissive more than anything. “Later, Gon.”

Click.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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[ ](https://doodleboi.tumblr.com/post/175396863334/hey-hey-hey-heres-my-pieces-for-the-hxhbb18-i)


	8. Chapter 7

The airport is small and almost exclusively for recreational use, and the one commercial ship departing before the next morning only has room for twenty passengers. By the time Killua is done glaring down spies, only a dozen of them actually board. They takeoff with a lurch, and then farmland is rolling by beneath them.

“I’m going to nap,” says Killua, poking Gon’s shoulder to snap his attention from the view. “Wake me up when we’re getting close, alright?”

“Okay,” says Gon, giving a smile as Killua walks off, waving goodbye with a flap of his fingers. Gon waits until he isn’t being watched to close his eyes and take a deep breath. Killua can be pretty cute.

He leans against the window rail and blankly observes the towns below. A family chats in the common area, the father and daughter going over a crossword puzzle as the mother and son watch a movie. Everyone else has retreated to the private rooms.

Some time away from Killua to think will do him good.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Their private compartment is tight. Two bunks are built into the wall, along with space for luggage and a shelf holding an old, square radio. Killua sleeps on the top bunk, sprawled on his stomach with a hand dangling over the edge. Gon gives it a gentle tug, and Killua retracts it like he was never asleep to begin with.

“We land in twenty,” says Gon. He tries to keep his tone light, but something must leak through because Killua pokes his head up just enough to look at him. He squirms under the spotlight attention. “Sleep at all?”

“A little,” says Killua, sitting and dropping his feet over the edge. He kicks them back and forth lazily, expression still blank, shoulders hunched to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. “You should have slept too.”

Gon shrugs, drifting his gaze to the port window. Grand clouds, illuminated by soft dawn, grow thicker as they descend. “I liked the view.”

“Enough to watch it for six hours?” Killua’s tone isn’t accusatory, nor does it suggest he bought the lie.

Gon fiddles with the strap of his sling. “Yeah.”

Killua blinks owlishly at him, and Gon looks to his shoes. This is the last thing he wants to talk about.

In a moment of grace, Killua doesn’t pry. He slips to the ground, and Gon backs away to give him room to move. He bends over the radio, and after a pause and a gentle curse it crackles to life. He flips through a few stations before settling and turning up the volume.

Gon laughs nervously as he recognizes a waltz, fearing he’s caught up. “The cast will get in the way,” he says, leaning against the wall.

“Nonsense,” says Killua, holding out his hand, smile radiant and charming. Gon frowns at his bad arm, and then up at Killua, who raises his eyebrows, smile slipping into something fonder. “It’ll be fun.”

For a long moment, Gon considers walking past him. He pinned down the sour flavour that accompanies thoughts of Killua, the catch to an otherwise perfect fable. Rejection, sharp and _recent._

When Gon lingers on the feeling it stings, hot and shameful. He’d done something that cracked them apart, and then, because Killua was Killua, he’d felt obligated to help him for trying to help Alluka.

Whatever they are will go away once Killua absolves his guilt. They’re only acting the parts of lovers, and when Gon’s memories are restored, it will be over. Killua will move on without dead weight at his heels.

The elusive shades to his guilt had been more than enough to occupy him the entire flight, and were now more than enough to keep him from looking Killua in the eye. Gon can’t decide whether the temporary charade is kind or cruel, but it is, undeniably, a charade.

But even if that’s all Killua is willing to offer, Gon’s too tired to fight against the star that glows in his chest whenever they touch. Maybe he’s stupid. Maybe he’s selfish. But he can let himself have a proper goodbye.

He reaches out, and Killua laces their fingers together, settles his other hand on Gon’s hip, and steps so close his bangs brush Gon’s forehead.

They dance, too closed in to do more than spin like music box figurines. Killua hums happily and nuzzles into Gon’s neck, and Gon laughs at the sensation of lips vibrating against his skin. Killua smells good. He squashes down tepid guilt.

“What?” asks Killua, and Gon feels his smile.

“Ticklish.”

Killua stretches to ghost a kiss over Gon’s forehead, and Gon melts, leaning into the touch. Killua laughs, settling back on his heels. Their noses brush together, and Gon closes his eyes, breath caught in his throat, stomach fluttering.

This time he kisses Killua back, meeting him halfway when Killua angles up his jaw. He bites Killua’s bottom lip, and hums with satisfaction when he gasps.

Killua breaks the kiss and abandons dancing to pin him against the wall, one forearm braced beside his head, his free hand cupping Gon’s jaw. Gon’s eyes flutter open, laggy and mesmerized. He laments the cast keeping him from pulling Killua closer.

“This is really bad timing,” says Killua, eyes a wild kind of desperate. “But I’m in love with you.”

Gon goes still. Killua stares at him, and the vulnerability in his eyes, hope and fear and honesty, makes it hard to breath. 

“Oh,” says Gon. Because Killua isn’t lying.

Oh.

Killua apparently doesn’t see a reason not to press a chaste kiss to Gon’s lips, parted in thought. He pulls away, movements tense, and Gon bites the inside of his cheek.

“I thought…” He thought a lot of things, but the words escape him like darting minnows. Killua tilts his head, prompting him to continue.

And all at once, he realizes how lost he really is. He doesn’t know how they met. He doesn’t know what they’ve been through. He doesn’t, and it suddenly seems very important, know Killua’s favourite colour.

“What’s your favourite colour?” asks Gon.

Killua’s eyebrows shoot up. “Green.”

Gon nods rapidly. That’s one mystery solved, but it’s a raindrop in a thunderstorm.

He can do it. It won’t be easy, but he can do it.

“What happened?” He leaves the “between us” unsaid.

“I got scared,” says Killua, smiling even though his eyes are shining. Gon covers the hand on his cheek. “You got hurt once, and I couldn’t… I didn’t want it to happen again.”

Gon blushes sheepishly. “Whoops,” he says, averting his gaze with a wince. Killua sputters a genuine laugh, and Gon rolls his eyes, smiling when Killua gently chastises him with a tug of his ear.

“I called you to ask about Alluka, and you told me you loved me,” says Killua. He makes a sound like a knife is being pulled from his gut. “And then I may have hung up on you.”

Gon frowns. Killua’s red from ear to ear. Gon tilts his head.

“Are you serious?” he asks, anger and amusement equal partners in his voice.

“I know, I know,” says Killua, burying his face in Gon’s chest. His shoulders are shaking.

“Killua!” says Gon, unable to stop his own laughter from bubbling up. It’s absurd. It is absolutely absurd that Killua, who responded to being shot at with giggles, was so taken aback by Gon stating his feelings that he _hung up the phone._

Killua paws at his chest for something to hold onto. “I know, I’m sorry, fuck Gon, I’m sorry.”

“Killua you’re stupid,” says Gon, warmth overflowing in his chest. Killua _loves_ him.

“I know,” he says, and there’s enough remorse in the words that Gon figures he’s almost had enough teasing.

“Killua, I love you,” he says, sugar sweet.

Killua tries to glare but the magnitude of his glee can’t hide for long. He scrunches up his features, blushing hard. “Yeah, I know.”

The last minutes of the flight are spent laughing through giddy excitement.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
They walk briskly towards the waiting car, and Gon feels eyes on his back.

“Stay close,” says Killua, squeezing his hand.

“They’re watching us,” says Gon, ducking in to deliver the words softly.

Killua nods, a hard stare flicking up to the windows of the nearest terminal. They reflect the afternoon sky, sun low enough to cut under the thick cloud cover. “Father wouldn’t leave this to them,” he says, tone impersonal.

As they near the limo, Gon breaks into a jog. Killua follows, breaking ahead to pop the door open for him.

Amane sits in the driver’s seat, her knuckles white around the wheel. Canary’s at her side, posture only marginally less defensive.

“Killua,” she says in greeting.

“Canary.” Killua tosses his backpack on the ground. “What’s new,” he asks, like they’re discussing the weather, as the car rolls forward.

“They both came,” she says. Fear passes over Killua’s face so briefly Gon almost misses it while clicking on his seatbelt.

“Okay,” he says, biting his bottom lip and furrowing his brow. If Gon weren’t terrified himself, he might stop to appreciate how cute it was. Or maybe he can do both and not be entirely sure why his heart is racing. “Let’s go to them.”

“Let’s go to them?” Amane squeaks. Gon watches her through the rearview mirror, eyebrows high and mouth puckered.

“I have a plan,” says Killua, mustering all the false bravado he can. It must be for Amane’s sake alone, because Canary’s lets out an amused huff.

“All this talk of a plan and I’m still not sure what it is,” says Canary, tapping her armrest.

Rage, undiluted and righteous, radiates from Killua as a wave of pressure. It holds for a moment, uncomfortably cold, then crackles away like the dying fizzle of a firework.

“Understood,” says Canary.

Gon grips the leather seat.

“So are you decided yet?” asks Killua, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely.

Canary looks to Amane, and after a moment a very nervous Amane does a double take from her to the road.

“Oh—does?” says Amane, glancing back in the mirror and shuffling her hands up and down the wheel. “Um, yes. Decided. Yes.”

Canary twists to face Killua directly. “We’re trusting you,” she says.

Killua nods, eyes dark. “I know.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Even though it’s morning rush hour, the streets are empty. Gon clicks and grinds his teeth. 

The downtown sidewalks are abandoned, and every road in sight is void of moving vehicles. Storefronts blink with “open” signs, but nothing moves inside. Gon bites his tongue, and guilt brews with fear in his stomach.

Like he can read Gon’s mind, Killua grabs his hand. Gon laces their fingers together. 

Right before they drive past it, a car with tinted windows pulls out in front of them. Amane brakes hard, Canary reaches for a cane balanced against the console, and Killua stiffens like a cat about to pounce. It drives on.

A guide.

After a hesitant, shaky sigh and a glance back at Killua, Amane follows. Another car pulls up behind them, sandwiching them into a hostile convoy.

Killua scoots to the center seat. He drapes an arm over Gon’s back and presses his thumb into the vertebrae of Gon’s neck, massaging up and down. Gon senses the tension in his body and wonders who the touch is for.

It isn’t long before they reach their destination.

The rusty truss bridge shines silver in the sunrise, paint chipped to scraps. The stream underneath it is more rock than water, and the lanes are barely wide enough to pass.

The guide car turns at it’s mouth, parking along the ditch before it. Amane slows to a stop in the middle of the road.

Two men stand on the bridge, still as statues. One is tall and stocky, with silver, waist length hair that sways in the wind. The other oozes a familiar, sickly detachment. Gon’s mouth falls open.

The man who stole his memories wears a crop vest, maroon pants, and an expression so flat he could be mistaken for a mannequin.

Illumi blinks, and Gon flinches.

He’s _wrong._ Deeply wrong, in the way that a broken, abandoned toy is wrong. Where there should be a spark of warmth, or of desire, even cruel, there’s nothing but a goal and the competence to achieve it. In his eyes, if Gon is anything, he’s in the way.

“You’re going to break my only working hand,” says a distant part of himself.

“What?” says Killua. The pain fades, as does the touch. “Oh. Sorry.”

Gon nods slowly, still mesmerized by the vacant stare. It’s like Illumi can make eye contact with him through the tinted windshield.

“You two stay in here,” says Killua, twisting to frown at the cars blocking the way they came.

“I was actually going to go for a quick stroll,” says Amane, voice warbly.

“Ha,” says Canary. And then, bitterly: “This was stupid, Killua.”

“Not was yet,” says Killua, popping open his door. He taps Gon’s shoulder, and then tugs on his shirt when he doesn’t respond right away. “C’mon.”

Killua’s family emanates strength and power leagues beyond his own. He can’t protect himself, and he can’t protect Killua. But he can spare him from having to do this alone.

He follows, and accepts the hand Killua offers him. “Don’t let go,” says Killua.

Gon musters a determined nod. Killua bats his head gently, eyes wrinkled by a mayfly smile.

Hand in hand, they walk forward. The men move to close the distance. Gon’s footsteps are the only sound aside from the wind and creek.

“Killua,” says the taller man. His face is heavily jowled and lined into a permanent frown. His eyes, distantly familiar, hold none of the kindness found so abundantly in Killua’s. Every step he takes radiates dignified confidence, as though he’s so certain of the outcome he doesn’t have to try.

Killua guides Gon to halt, and the men stop too. “Father,” he says, not giving anything.

“Your mother will be happy to see you home,” he says, warning etched into the angle of his brows.

“I’m not going home.” Gon’s pride roars as strong as his fear.

“That decision will have consequences, Killu,” says Illumi. His gaze drifts smoothly to Gon, and his lip quirks in mild disgust. “I can kill the boy for you, if you’d like,” 

“No thanks,” says Killua, bored, like Illumi is irrelevant. To his father: “Let us pass.”

“We’re going home, Killua,” he says, sudden anger low and raw.

Gon bares his teeth and takes a daring step forward. “He’s already said no.” Killua squeezes his hand twice; a silent reminder to be careful.

His father glares, unamused and unimpressed. He drags his eyes from Gon’s face to his shoes and back up again, briefly pausing on the cast. He frowns at Killua. “This is the friend you stole your brother for?”

Killua’s grip tightens so hard Gon’s knuckles pop.

“Sister. Fuck you.”

His father steamrolls onwards. “You want to throw away all your potential for a plaything and a weapon. You have a responsibility to the family and to yourself to grow beyond your immature, childish—”

The air snaps. Electricity shocks up his arm. The pain of it flashes his vision black, and then his forehead cracks with a splitting headache. Gon stumbles back a step, gasping for air.

Killua’s father, eyes wide open, crumples to the ground. Illumi follows a moment later, and then Gon drops, shaking, to his knees.

He _feels_ it. It pushes deeper, branching out and taking root, twisting to fill up his skull like a pushy rosebush. He tries to talk but can’t, just shudders, sickened by his own helplessness.

Killua is folded over, hands twitching on his thighs, blood to his wrists, eyes obscured by his bangs. He pants hard, and something in Gon’s chest aches.

Car doors pop open. Shouting. His vision blurs.

It _hurts._

Killua finally looks up, expression wavering between triumphant and devastated. “I’m rusty.”

“Killua, I…”

There’s panic in his eyes.


	9. Chapter 8

Canary sits with him in the backseat, gripping his arm in silent support. Killua gently knocks his head against hers, the only way he can think to express his thanks. He cradles Gon against his chest, hanging on the edge of every exhale, every flutter of his eyelashes.

“Leorio on the phone,” says Canary. “Would you—”

“It’s okay. Just let him know we’re on our way.”

Between Gon’s eyes, Illumi’s needle pulses fiercely, embedded with every last scrap of his will to control. Killua wants to pull it out—has wanted to from the moment he first noticed it—but it wasn’t built like his. The needle is the root, but the oily branches burrow deep. He doesn’t know what would happen if he tried to brute force the solution he knows.

It’s his fault. His fault for getting Gon involved, his fault for not considering Illumi would try to use him as leverage. His fault for being careless, for realizing too late, for loving him. His fault that surprised Gon. His fault Gon is dying in his arms.

He kisses Gon’s forehead.

Wishing it away still doesn’t work.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
They’ve left the thin oceanside highway behind for the private road up to the house. The sun sets over vast rolling hills, and stray oak stumps, remnants of rows long fallen, mark the distance.

In another lifetime, the house served as a weekend retreat for a wealthy merchant. Raucous parties made the local paper, along with muddy retellings of scandal. Upon her death, it trickled through hands and centuries, losing some of its luster every time, until it landed with him and Alluka. She liked the massive chandelier in the dining room. He liked the isolation.

They round a bend, and somehow he’s surprised it hasn’t changed since he left. Wine dark ivy chokes the wood siding, interrupted only by outdoor lights Alluka strung along the trim and big round windows.

A week ago, they watched a movie in the small library overlooking his shoddy attempt at a garden. She curled to paint her toenails, and he did research for his next job at the desk, disinterested in the comedy but happy to listen to her joke about it. If would be awfully convenient if awoke with his head in his notes and her shaking his arm.

Kurapika stands on the porch, back straight, hands on the railing. He doesn’t move as Killua maneuvers Gon out of the car and tries to keep steady as they walk over. The facade breaks as soon as he can see Killua’s expression. He throws a hand over his mouth, and Killua’s heart aches with shared grief.

“Sorry,” says Kurapika, reaching to brush ginger, shaking fingers over Gon’s forehead. His mouth twists, and he pulls his hand away like it was burned. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.”

“It’s okay,” says Killua, unable to muster a smile to go with his words of reassurance. “It’s okay.”

Kurapika meets his eyes. He radiates question and challenge, fists clenched at his sides and nose scrunched. The anger, Killua realizes when Kurapika swiftly opens the front door and ushers them inside, isn’t directed at him. Maybe isn’t directed at anyone at all. Just there.

Leorio sits on the stairs, head in his hands. He looks as bad as Killua feels: jacket missing, shirt almost untucked, glasses askew. He springs to his feet, awkwardly stepping out of the way.

“Hey, kid.”

“Old man.”

They can’t even pretend the usual bite. Leorio wraps an arm around his shoulders and buries what might be a kiss on Killua’s crown, stroking the back of his head gently. He’s too exhausted to entertain his pride squealing about being treated like a child. He’s more of one than he thought he was, and if Leorio wants to offer comfort, he’ll accept it.

He’s mindful not to knock Gon into the wall as he walks upstairs. The other’s follow; Canary closes the door and guides Amane to wait together in the living room.

“How is she?” asks Killua.

“Worried about you guys,” says Leorio. With horrifically tone-deaf annoyance: “You didn’t exactly give us much to work with.”

Killua’s mouth stretches into a short lived smile. “Sorry. They were monitoring my phone.”

“We guessed,” says Kurapika.

Killua steps around the laundry basket of folded clothes in the hallway.

“And Mito?”

“We let her know you’d found him,” says Leorio, “and sent Bisky to escort her here.”

It’s a relief she’s safe, though Killua doesn’t envy her separation. 

Alluka’s room door is open.

Natural light comes in through the open windows. The colourful seascape she painted with Gon covers an entire wall, and shelves upon shelves are lined with treasures. A dazzle of sparkling sheets hang from the four poster bed upon which she sits, toes tapping on the hardwood floor, hands clasped together in her lap. 

“He’s bad,” she says without looking up.

“Yeah,” says Killua, stepping closer tentatively.

She remains still for a moment, and takes a steadying breath before looking from his hands to his face, meeting what must be a transparent stare. “How are you,” she asks, tilting her head.

Killua smiles weakly, tears finally trickling. “Um,” he says, laugh wobbly. “Been better.”

“Yeah?” she asks, her own eyes watery.

He nods stiffly.

Alluka rubs her hands together and drops her eyes to his feet. Her nose wrinkles. “Are they really dead?”

Killua grits his teeth and tries to push aside the feeling of snapping bone. It was messier than it had to be. He isn’t sure if he did that on purpose. “Yeah.”

She leans back on her palms and stares at the ceiling, face unreadable.

He was blind to think it was over. The uneventful years drifting wherever the wind blew them had been like surfacing from a tempest. He convinced himself the family would never make a serious attempt to retrieve him, and he used his constructed truth to excuse himself from planning for it. And now his sister’s sense of security is shattered, and Gon has been stolen from himself.

It isn’t fair. None of it has ever been fair.

Alluka nods decisively, and he blinks away his stupor. “Good,” she says.

Killua is distantly surprised when his agreement doesn’t come attached to any guilt. She scoots back, and he lays Gon down in the middle of the bed. Alluka helps to steady his destroyed arm.

By the time he returns from scrubbing his hands, Leorio and Kurapika sit at the foot of the bed, a space left open for him at Gon’s side.

Alluka frowns at the warm cloth he’s carrying. Killua shrugs a shoulder. “I got blood on his cheek.”

The streak is hardly anything, but Killua knows it’s there. It’s a silly thought, but if—

If—

He doesn’t want that. He isn’t sure why, but he doesn’t. The others watch on as he rubs away the mark and drops the dirtied cloth on Alluka’s nightstand, between nail polish and a ticket stub.

“Okay,” he says.

Alluka nods dutifully. When she reaches out, though, it isn’t to grab Gon’s hand; it’s Kurapika’s.

They chain together, messy but somehow whole, Killua curled with his forehead against Gon’s. Alluka picks up his good hand, callused from winters on a crabbing rig, odd jobs for his fellow islanders, and rare bursts of training with Killua, completing the circle.

Gon needs to be alright, because Killua needs to make good on the promise _he_ made.

“Ask.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
[ ](https://doodleboi.tumblr.com/post/175396863334/hey-hey-hey-heres-my-pieces-for-the-hxhbb18-i)


	10. C̲͚͔̙̼̘̅̓͌͑̒͝H̸̘̳̉̎͆̏ͤ͂͌A͖͚̞̥͉̙̻͗͛̅̈́ͦ̿P̴̴̑̆̾̋͘ͅŢ̘̟̪̭̗̭̪̺̚Ȩ̪̭̪ͦ̿R̫̗̹̉̓̕ ̧̾̅̈͒҉̟̩̰̪̭͍͎̳9̭͉̗̫̙̘͉̱̽̐͛̾ͧ̓

Gon closes his eyes, steadies himself with a sigh, and lets his hand fall away from the marble. Space unwinds around him, and he unwinds with it.


	11. EPILOGUE

The sky is dark, and the gusts howl.

Gon rests his elbows on his knees and his chin in his palm. Rough rock, damp and cold, scrapes against the back of his calves.

Killua faces away from him, arms outstretched, loose braid coming undone in the wind. The ocean, massive and unbroken along the horizon, swells before him. A crashing wave splashes against the rocks, spraying him in a fine mist, and he laughs. Killua turns to Gon, safe on his perch, with arms still throw wide.

“Feels nice,” he says, grinning wide.

Gon tilts his head. “Yeah?”

Killua’s gleaming eyes narrow, and he steps forward, smile shy but genuine. He holds his bangs out of his eyes, and Gon’s heart skitters. “What’s the face for?”

Gon looks up at the storm clouds and twists his mouth. “Nothing,” he says, shifting to part his legs. Killua steps between them, wrapping his arms around Gon’s middle and burying his nose in his stomach.

“It’s ‘cause I’m beautiful,” says Killua, settling into the hug. Gon drapes his hands over Killua’s back, clasping his right, which has never quite been the same, with his left.

“Mm. Maybe,” says Gon, his smile fed by growing warmth in his chest. Killua laughs, and Gon curls over him. Far in the distance, lightning cracks, signalling the downpour to come.

“I love you,” Killua mumbles into his jacket, just loud enough to be heard over the wind.

Gon closes his eyes, smile bright and easy. “I know,” he says, throwing in a tint of edge. Killua pinches his side.

Sometimes, Gon is reminded of how very, very lucky he is.

He kisses the top of Killua’s head and tastes salt.

The storm breaks, and they run home hand in hand.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
[ ](https://doodleboi.tumblr.com/post/175396863334/hey-hey-hey-heres-my-pieces-for-the-hxhbb18-i)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO WELCOME TO THE END
> 
> Illustrations by the amazing and talented and wonderful doodleboi! Go let them know how much u loved their work because oh damN???? oh damn its good (。♡‿♡。)  
> doodleboi.tumblr.com
> 
> if u want to hear suggest ideas, participate in prompt memes, or listen to me yell abt writing im over at  
> jacks8nwriting.tumblr.com
> 
> comments very very appreciated
> 
> ilyall and i hope u enjoyed >:O!


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